Dreaming
by Koriat Cyredanthem
Summary: After she died, John was left alone - half of his soul, it felt, ripped away in a single instant. She plagues his nights now, and he's not sure anymore what is real and what is not. One-shot.


**AN: Warning! Death, suicidal idealization, and cussing ahead. Do not read if you are squeamish. This came to me after thinking about my own (very limited) experience with mental illness and suicide.**

The cot was stiff, but John had never known different, so he sank into it with a quiet sigh. It had been a long day – up well before the rest of the ship and in the gym working out before 0500. Then a briefing with one of the captains, another briefing with a group of lieutenants , going over reports from human and Sangheili scouting teams, reporting their findings in summary to Captain Lasky, another three hours of working out, an appointment with the technicians to ensure his armor repairs were going well, and then more working out until he was too tired to keep his eyes open and had made his way to his room.

The cold, bare room was quiet, isolated. While he usually preferred such quarters, he would have given much to instead be crammed into a tiny garage with his Spartans again. The sink dripped annoyingly despite how many times he tightened the bolts underneath it. And his maintenance request so far hadn't been answered – too many big problems on every ship, not to mention the shipyard they hovered over.

_Hopefully, I'm so tired I won't dream_, John thought to himself as he pulled the thin woolen blanket over his body. He knew it would be untrue, though, as his eyes slipped shut. She was waiting for him.

"_Nice of you to show up," she scoffed. So, it was to be anger tonight. "Took your sweet time."_

"_I-"_

_She lifted a hand warningly. "I don't want to hear it. You don't want to see me anymore, is that it? We're through?"_

_John could feel his heart breaking just a little more, a physical pain in his chest that reminded him of being hit with stun rounds. "Never," he answered firmly. "But-"_

"_I'm dead, so we can't be together any more, right?" She smirked, but instead of the usual sarcastic charm she displayed, the expression was decidedly feral – and centered on him, not on a mutual enemy. "Maybe you are mad, John. Maybe we died together – a true fairy tale ending, wouldn't that be nice? The captain going down with his ship. Two lovers destined to die together. Romeo and Juliet. Cesar and Brutus."_

"_They weren't lovers." Somehow, those are the only words his tongue will form. But he wants to add: "Neither were we."_

"_No? My data must be corrupt. Perhaps I should purge myself. I am over nine years old now, after all." Red streaks ran down her blue-purple body. "Ancient by AI standards. But you were just beginning life at nine years old. How is that fair?"_

"_It isn't. Life isn't fair."_

"_Oh, don't get all high and mighty on me, John." She wandered closer, though in this dreamscape, nothing truly moved. She just _felt_ nearer. "Why don't you join me, John? Then we could be together…"_

John yanked himself awake by sheer force of will, sitting upright. He'd sweated through the sheets; he was holding his pistol in one hand. He carefully set it back down on the nightstand. After a moment's thought, he slipped the magazine out, ejected the bullet in the chamber, and placed both in the drawer, closing it firmly. Then he lay back down, resolutely telling himself he would not sleep. But his body was exhausted; he'd denied it sleep for too long, and what sleep he did get wasn't at all restful.

This time, she was more than happy to see him.

"_John!" she cried. It felt like something hit his chest; then it squeezed him. The dream conjuration was hugging him. "I thought you'd left me." She was crying into his chest; his shirt was getting wet around the neck. _

"_I'd never leave you," he told her gently, wrapping his arms around her hardlight form. Instead of the faint tingling that hardlight made, though, John encountered warm flesh – and not a stitch of clothing covering it. _

"_I'm sorry," she whispered, pressing closer into him. Now he could acutely feel every curve of her body against him – she was only about one and a half meters tall, yet still somehow her head nestled into his neck. "It's not me. You know that, right? It's not me."_

_John nodded numbly. None of them were her. But that didn't stop him from believing they were, at least for a time. Until they slipped up – like that other one, who had told him to kill himself, or this one, who was human and naked, something she had never been. _

_She looked up at him, bright tears sparkling on her beautifully carved face. "I'm sorry," she whispered again, licking her lips. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She repeated herself several times, the words forming slowly and each hitting John like a pile of bricks. _

_Finally, he was able to put a finger against her lips, stopping the voice. "No," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."_

_The dream changed again; now they stood in the middle of John's room. She wore fatigues that, despite all examples he'd ever seen, enhanced her hourglass figure. He wore cotton cloth as well; looking down, he realized he was in civilian clothing. And he was shorter; _she_ towered over _him_. _

"_What could have been, John." She stepped forward. His eyes came level with her shoulders; he looked up into her face. "But you would never have survived." He looked down; a plasma burn was slowly melting the flesh around his chest. He looked back up and saw that she was crying, watching him. The pain set in after a second of silently staring at each other, and John grabbed his chest. He fell to his knees. She watched stoically, though tears streamed down her iron-hard expression. _

John dragged himself out of the dream and to his feet, crossing to the sink. He leaned against it, breathing heavily and rubbing his chest, watching the slow drip of water from the faucet. The pain was still there; he had to look into the mirror to ensure he wasn't being burned by plasma. He was flushed, though, his pulse elevated. Looking into his own eyes, he could see that his eyes were dilated as well, and an internal check told him that his heart was racing and several muscles in his chest, legs, and arms ached.

But most of all, he now had the headache of the same type he'd gotten the first few times he'd had her in his head. The pain was dull and throbby, located just above the nape of his neck but deep. He knew without having to consult the doctors that that was the location of his neural implant that had allowed him to control the MJOLNIR armor and let Cortana access some of his wetware.

Staring into the mirror, John dropped into a half-doze and she found him again.

"_Come on, John, man up," she scolded. "You're a Spartan. You don't feel things. You're stoic as a rock."_

"_Not when it comes to you."_

_She snorted, shaking her head. "You're going to get us both in trouble. Now, come on, buck up. We've got a pretty little situation on our hands that I could use your help with."_

"_What?" he asked. He realized suddenly that he was in his armor but she wasn't; he could see her through the visor. She wore UNSC Marine Corps battle armor, equipped with a couple of flash-bang grenades, a pistol on her hip, and a rifle in her hands. Her head was covered in a standard-issue Marine helmet. _

"_Covenant bogies, three o'clock," she answered, turning and walking off. A jungle materialized around them. John followed because he couldn't do otherwise. _

_Gunfire – human rifle clatter and Covenant plasma sizzles – erupted around them. She screamed once and fell over; he ran to her, ignoring the chaos around them. It melted away as he reached her and slid to his knees next to her body, lifting her shoulders gently. Her helmeted head lolled sickeningly – her neck was broken. _

"_J-John…" She murmured his name, her lips moving despite the blue-purple blood pumping out of her neck as it lolled. John pressed his hand against the wound. _

"_Stay with me," he pleaded. With his other hand, he gently removed her helmet, battlezone or no. _

_Underneath, her face was covered with blue-purple blood that streaked in lines resembling what she had looked like as a holographic avatar. Her nose gushed more blood; it ran into her mouth and down her throat, but didn't choke her. _

"_Don't die." He looked around for help – a medic, something. But where they had been in a jungle, they now sat in the middle of a deserted ship. He recognized it as the cryo bay of the _Forward Unto Dawn_, the last place he had known her to be fully herself. _

_John looked back and found himself caught by her gentle eyes. They were a deep blue, like his own but sharper, clearer. She smiled slightly and raised a trembling hand to his face, leaving a smear of cold blood on his cheek even though he still wore his helmet. Then she sighed and was gone. _

_John gently set her rapidly-cooling body down on the ground. He was covered in her blue-purple blood; either that or his armor had been dyed in the dream world. He wanted to wake up, but something was holding him here this time. _

_John picked up her rifle and headed into the ship's interior. Within a half-dozen steps, it changed into the flat beach of the Silent Cartographer that he'd stormed with a pair of Marine squads back on Installion 04. _

_He felt like he was moving through water as he watched the Pelicans land. His perspective changed until he was hovering a thousand meters above the battlefield. Then he was back in his own body, inside the Pelican, yet detached from it. He moved out of the hatch and ran immediately forward in the sand. It clung to his boots, slowing him down significantly. _

_He could faintly hear screaming from the Marines as they stormed the beach, though he should have been able to hear them clearly. They were right next to him, the radio was working, but they sounded like they were yelling over a distance. A loud authoritative voice barked something, and then a sharp jab in the back of his neck broke through the confusion in his mind. He whirled and a short Elite snarled at him, holding an Energy sword in one hand. John grabbed that hand, keep the sword pointed away from him, and punched the Elite in the chest. Despite his armor, the alien's torso caved in; John's hand came away covered in blood. _

But instead of the blue-green blood of an Elite, it was covered it red blood – and the Elite shimmered, vanished, became a white-robed medic. The energy sword sputtered and died, revealing, instead, an empty hypodermic needle. John released the man, who coughed wetly and fell over, wheezing. Crushed ribs, deflated lungs: he would die quickly.

Something was roaring in his ears; John blinked slowly, trying to comprehend where he was and what he was doing. His left hand was covered with blood; his right slapped at his ear as he tried to rid himself of the ringing.

Behind him, he could hear more yelling, then that same authoritative voice barking orders. John turned, ready to head for the tech bay to get suited up, thinking they were being attacked. But he halted when he found himself face-to-barrel with a rifle. On instinct, he moved sideways – and crashed into a wall as his legs suddenly gave out and he fell, sliding into a kneeling position.

He head rang and then someone was crouched in front of him. They grabbed his hands and locked cold steel around them; John twisted away out of instinct but found his body unwilling to cooperate. More cold steel bound his ankles together.

They were talking to him or around him, but he couldn't make out the words, and their bodies morphed between human, Sangheili, Brute, and finally _her_. He faced a dozen of her, all talking at once. He caught snippets, but he couldn't string them into sensible phrases.

"Killed… even drugged!"

"Got to..."

"How's he going..."

"Fuck that… we going… move?"

"What do..?"

"Is… bleeding?"

John could feel his vision swimming, though he could no longer see anything except shapes. Someone touched his chest, and he realized he was in pain there – like before, only sharper. And his shirt was wet. It clung to him. But it wasn't a cold wetness, it was a warm one.

"Fighting... All night…"

"Hurt? …scared of what?"

His head ached fiercely. John raised his hands to his forehead, accidentally bumping someone who was kneeling on his left. He couldn't make out who it was, but they had their hands pressed to his chest. Maybe they were the one hurting his chest?

"I'm…angry!"

"Fuck! …not breathing!"

John shrugged the person away, careful not to actually injure him or her. The wetness across his chest – and the pain – increased. He looked down, puzzled. His chest was colored entirely in red, and he thought he could see white and silver shards poking through his shirt. What had happened to him?

"Shot…"

"How did…?"

"Medic!"

The person kneeling next to John moved away and John leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his head on his wrists and the cold steel. It penetrated through his headache and he felt like he could think again. He started understanding more of what was going on around him.

"He's not going to make it."

"Will he?"

"Not unless he breaks out of it…Not going to let anyone else die for that bastard, hero or not."

"Shut up, sir…What can we do?"

John looked up as someone else knelt in front of him. He vaguely recognized the face before it morphed into a snarling Brute. Somehow, John was too tired to even feel nervous about the Brute's teeth being so close to his face.

"…Can you hear me?" the Brute asked, his voice as high as a human male's. John nodded, once, trying not to make his head pound worse. If they Brute wanted to test his hearing, who was he to argue?

"…Stand up. Can you do that?"

Well, maybe the Brute was inviting him to dinner – they had no qualms about killing a downed opponent, after all. John wondered what they were going to eat. He was ravenous. He pushed himself upright; more wetness trickled down his shirt, warming the areas that were cool and sticky.

The Brute grimaced and John's vision flashed for a moment, showing Captain Lasky's face for a second before the Brute visage came back, but wavering. If John concentrated and looked closely, he could see the Captain's tanned skin, his white teeth and grey hair, and most of all, his brown eyes, dark with worry – and no little fear.

Others moved; John tracked each Brute and Sangheili – shorter than he, every one of them – as they moved through the hall. He was in a hallway, on human ship. John looked back down at Captain Lasky.

Some corner of his brain whispered, _I'm hallucinating. Or having a break down. I've killed someone, and they're worried I'm going crazy. That's why I'm hand- and ankle-cuffed. And… Something's happened to my chest. _

Whatever they had stabbed him with was wearing off, too. He looked down again, trying to assess the damage. _Bullet wound, point-blank. _

At first, remembering the gun he'd faced just a few minutes ago – had it really been that short a time – he thought one of the on-board Marines had shot him. Examining the wound closer, however, made him doubt that explanation; the angle came in from below his ribs, shooting up from a height far shorter than any of the Marines around him. Only his enhanced bone density had saved him.

_Then who shot me?_

With a chill, John thought he knew; despite his caution in how he had unloaded his pistol before going to sleep, he'd managed to reload it and shoot himself. He knew how to reassemble the pistol with a blindfold on; it wouldn't have been difficult, even in his sleep – or whatever – to reload the single bullet or even the magazine. The wound's angle of entry didn't allow for any other explanation. But he hadn't hit anything vital; had he not been trying to kill himself? Or had _she_ intervened from the recesses of his subconscious? John's head spun again.

The Brute – _No, Captain Lasky_, John reminded himself, looking up again – was trying to get his attention without startling him. John could feel the pent-up rage and anger hiding somewhere and knew he'd lash out before thinking if given half a chance.

"You're injured," the captain said quietly.

John couldn't help it; he felt the grin tugging at both corners of his mouth, a chuckle bubbling up from the pits of his stomach. He leaned over, chuckling weakly to himself, his red blood splattering the steel-grey plates beneath his bare feet.

_~~HALO~~_

Thomas Lasky watched, horrified, as the Spartan leaned over, his chest dripping blood onto the ship's newly-washed deck. The large man was actually _giggling_ – there was no other word for it. The sound was raspy and quiet, but it was definitely a giggle.

The men still in the hallway started inching away. They left the dead medic, whose chest was caved in as though a Brute had stepped on him, on the floor where they had been trying to revive him.

Lasky gulped as the Spartan looked up again, meeting his eyes. They were a pale blue, rimmed in black – the mark of a Spartan II.

_If windows are eyes to the soul_, he thought to himself giddily, _his are broken and shattered. _

Those eyes suddenly rolled upwards and the huge Spartan collapsed, first to his knees and then, almost in slow motion, onto his left side. His breathing was steady and even and his hands twitched, but he was otherwise still.

Lasky snapped orders quickly. The Spartan was bleeding out, even if he seemed not to feel the pain. It took the threat of a court martial to get the Marine squad to approach the large man, and even then, one of them kept his rifle trained on the Spartan at all times. A medical team, waiting in another hallway where they could keep out of the way, dashed forward with a large stretcher. Five Marines managed to lift the man onto it and, despite their palpable fear, they were gentle about it. Then the medics disappeared with their patient, heading quickly for the onboard ER.

Lasky turned to his next task; they had to clear the corridor of blood and the dead medic's body before the rest of the ship woke. And he'd have to make a report of this. Clearly, the Spartan was not fit for duty, but that was a problem for the shrinks. Lasky would handle what he could and leave the rest up to higher officers.

"Clear the hall," he ordered the Sergeant nearby. "Clean this up and take him to the holding bay for Last Flight." He nodded to the medic's corpse; the Sergeant nodded grimly and turned to his men. Lasky jogged towards his quarters. He needed help, and fast; a single Spartan could easily, if he was so minded, kill himself and quite possibly take the rest of the ship with them. And judging by what Lasky had seen in the Chief's eyes, such a situation was not entirely impossible.


End file.
